


Weep We A Wild Miserere

by within_a_dream



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Case Fic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4866899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/pseuds/within_a_dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nightingale drags Peter away from a relaxing weekend at home to investigate a mysterious death, and they both find more than they bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weep We A Wild Miserere

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "The Willow-Tree I" by William Thackeray. 
> 
> Note: this fic contains references to suicide, and some suicidal ideation. It is also, somehow, a gen fake-dating fic. Set somewhere after _Broken Homes_. Many thanks to [Brigdh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Brigdh) for betaing!
> 
> EDIT: Also a fill for the "First-Person Narration" square on my [Gen Prompt Bingo card](https://genprompt-bingo.dreamwidth.org/).

It was Saturday morning,  we’d just finished a particularly difficult case involving a kelpie, and I was looking forward to sleeping in. Until, that is, Nightingale woke me up to talk about a death which didn’t even sound like our field. Young man goes missing, his body turns up on a riverbank. Sad, but it happens.

“People drown in rivers all the time,” I grumbled, hoping he’d let me go back to bed.

“Yes, but they don’t typically wash up on the bank completely exsanguinated.”

Yeah, that _was_ pretty unusual. Unusual enough to warrant a drive out to the country, however much I hated to admit it. An hour to pack, and then we were on the road. Nightingale drove while I read the autopsy report. Connor Blake, 24. Last seen Friday June 4, body found two days later, drained of blood but with no discernable wounds. The only marks on him were strange red lines up and down his arms.

“Any idea what killed him?”

Nightingale raised his eyes from the road for a moment. “The blood loss would suggest vampire, but the marks are wrong. Any of the native water fauna wouldn’t drain the blood. I’m at as much of a loss as you are, Peter.”

As soon as we got into town, we interviewed Blake’s family. I hated this part. His parents were quiet—judging from the pictures on their wall, he’d been their only child. The conversation went quick. No, he didn’t have any enemies; no, they hadn’t noticed him behaving strangely before his death; no, they hadn’t seen anything unusual in town.

Next was the girlfriend, a young blonde woman named Emma. Her face was red and swollen, like she’d been crying ever since she got the news, and the minute she saw me, she began to sob again.

“He was such a sweetheart! I can’t imagine why anyone would have wanted to hurt him. I was worried that he’d jumped, when I heard…but he couldn’t have done this to himself.”

Now there was something new. “Did he have any reason to kill himself?”

Her crying, which had finally quieted down, started up again. “I broke things off with him the night he disappeared. I never would have if I’d known what was going to happen. He was broken up about it—he set off for the river, and that was the last I saw of him.”

“Thank you for your help, miss.” That was a start, at least, although I had no idea what sort of creature could feed on suicidal thoughts.

Neither did Nightingale, it turned out. I couldn’t tell if it was comforting or frightening that we were both equally in the dark. After discussing the interviews, we set out for the riverbank. The water was quiet—no unruly river spirits here. No sign of anything else either, although of course neither of us had any idea what we were looking for. After a long afternoon of searching for anything or nothing, I sat back against a massive willow growing over the bank. Nightingale kept searching without objection.

The longer I sat, the more uncomfortable I felt. Not _vestigial_ uncomfortable, or in-danger uncomfortable, just restless—and cold. Hadn’t it been sweltering when we left for the river?

“Does it feel cool to you?”

Nightingale wiped at his forehead with his handkerchief. “I’m quite hot, actually.”

I shrugged, and stood up. Must have been the shade.

***

That night I had strange dreams, filled with creeping shadows and dark, churning waters. I was certain there was a thread woven through them that would tell me something important about the case, but as soon as I woke up it slipped away.

The thumping that had been working its way into my dream finally registered as a knock on my door, and I got up to open it, ready to chew Nightingale out for waking me up two days in a row. At the look on his face, I forgot about my complaints (and the dreams) altogether.

“There’s been another death,” he said. “A young woman this time, in a town a few miles down the river.”

“I’ll pack my bag.”

Claire Goodman, nineteen. Same loss of blood, same injuries to the arms. We met her girlfriend, Natalie, first. Ex-girlfriend, actually, as of the night of her disappearance.

“I feel horrid about it now, but, I mean…I couldn’t have known. I’m moving to London for university next fall, and she’s staying here in town, and it never would  have worked out.”

Natalie let out a little sniffle, and I put what I hoped was a comforting hand on her arm. “You can’t blame yourself. You understand this is an open case, so I can’t tell you much, but all evidence points to foul play.”

She looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Please find whoever did this.”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

***

Of course, it wasn’t looking likely that we’d find whatever creature had been killing people. At a loss for what else to do, we headed down to the river—this town was along the same river as the last, but neither Nightingale nor I had been able to find any spirits associated with it. This part of the water felt wrong to me too, but I couldn’t pinpoint why.

As we walked along the bank, towards where Claire had been found, a tree caught my eye. It looked identical to the massive willow in the last town, and it made my skin crawl. Its shadow stretched over the water, leaving a too-black spot painted across the ripples of the current. I knew, looking at it, that I couldn’t say anything within earshot. _It’s just a tree_ , the sensible part of me said, but the part growing attuned to magic knew that it was anything but.

The worst bit was, though I could see the problem, Nightingale clearly couldn’t, and I couldn’t warn him. Why he couldn’t sense something wrong with it I didn’t know, but the sight of him leaning up against the trunk after he’d finished investigating the river made my skin crawl. It took too long for us to leave.

As soon as we were out of earshot (at least, I hoped—who knew what the hearing range of a tree was?), I cornered him. “Look, I know how this sounds, but it was the tree.”

He looked at me like I’d suggested the murderer was the victim’s favorite hat. “The tree?”

“That willow, on the banks of the river. It was here, _and_ at the site of Connor Blake’s death. And it felt off.”

He ran his hands through his hair, the shock on his face fading somewhat. “There is a folkloric connection between willows and lost love…and I’m inclined to trust your intuition. If you’re certain about your impressions, there’s only one way forward from here.”

I nodded emphatically. “What would that be?”

“The tree’s seeking out couples who have recently separated. We’ll need to present it with prey.”

It took a moment for the implications of his statement to hit me. “Oh, no. I’m _not_ going on a date with you, sir.”

***

He talked me around. Nightingale and I were the sole extent of the team, and it would be unethical to bring in civilians (not to mention the time we’d have explaining it all). I hated to imagine Beverley’s attitude to being called in for a romantic riverside stroll with me for the greater good, so Nightingale it was. That didn’t make me any happier about it.

“I’m surprised it even occurred to you that two blokes could date each other.” That was rude, but if Nightingale was going to drag me into being his lover for a night, I was going to take every opportunity to get a few digs in.

He arched an eyebrow, refusing to take my bait. “Your generation didn’t invent homosexuals, Peter.”  

“They call themselves gay now. No one will believe you managed to catch such a fine young man as myself if you go around calling yourself a homosexual. And that’s another thing—don’t you think you’re a bit old for me?”

He sighed. “I’d been led to believe that was rather the ideal for a certain subset of the community. I could be your…daddy, I think the term is.”

“Oh God, _please_ never say that again!” One look at the horror on my face and he started laughing, and I realized that Nightingale had known exactly what he was saying.

 He tamped down his smile. “I was only a bit confused, and used the wrong terminology. I _am_ an old man, Peter.

***

Of course, we had to begin at the end, with him breaking my heart within earshot of the river. It was best, we’d both agreed, for Nightingale to do the heavy lifting magic-wise. I’d be the bait, as the weaker magician and the younger of the two of us. I wasn’t particularly pleased, but then again, I really didn’t want to get my boss killed by a tree.

We’d worked out our relationship and the reason for our argument, and I hoped I’d never have to have a conversation like this with Nightingale again. Or anyone, really; I’d known from the start that putting together this relationship would be awkward, but I’d never guessed just _how_ awkward. At least we were far enough into the country that no one would overhear us. I could only imagine explaining the circumstances of our argument to any of my coworkers— _Ah yes, we were investigating the tragic murders of several young people, and found an undercover investigation necessary to lure out the killer (one Salix Alba). Yes, I’m aware that I’m describing a tree. No, I’m not at liberty to divulge how fabricating a romantic relationship with my senior officer aided the case. I would never live it down._

Neither of us was sure how close we’d need to be to the river for this to work, so we began our argument about thirty metres from the bank.  Our loosely-scripted conversation drifted from talk of a meeting he’d attended at work today and my obnoxious little sister to an invitation of dinner with my family, which Nightingale turned down with an incredibly realistic look of panic on his face.

“Come on, Tom! I’ve told you, they won’t mind about your age. My stepmum’s barely older than me, so she can’t well judge me for shacking up with you.”

“I’m not concerned about our age difference, Peter. Surely you’ve realized by now that the world doesn’t tend to look kindly on people like us.”

“Not my family, though. We’ve got a gay cousin, we’ve always been good to her—”

“And what would happen if my employer found out?”

“Well, you sue him for fucking discrimination!”

Nightingale sighed, his weariness all too realistic, and began to walk away.

“Hey! Come back…we don’t have to introduce you. I’ll tell them I’m single, and we’ll only meet up in the city.”

“You young lads think you can skate through everything so long as you shout loudly enough about who you are, and you never stop to think about the people listening.”

I got myself ready to tear up as he turned around to answer me. “Peter…I don’t think we ought to be together.”

“What the hell?” I ran up to him. “Just because I invite you to dinner—”

“It wasn’t the dinner. At least, not entirely that. You deserve a man who will make you happy, who’s not ashamed to be seen in public with you.” He pushed me away. “Please, I can’t do this any longer.”

“You can’t just—I love you, Tom!” It wasn’t too difficult to sound heartbroken; the air around the river had grown cold, and something seemed to be leeching the happiness from the air. I could see on his face that Nightingale could feel it too, or at least, that he was bothered by _something_.

“You’ll find someone who loves you more.” With that, he walked away.

The feeling crept up on me, as I stood alone on the riverbank. One minute I was shivering and pulling my jacket around me, and the next I was looking at the river and thinking, _It would be so easy to jump in. He doesn’t love me anymore. I’m alone, and the water is gentle_.

I couldn’t even shove the thoughts out of my head for fear that the tree would catch on. Worse, I wasn’t sure if I _could_ stop them. They’d wormed their way in so insidiously that I thought I might tear myself up trying to remove them. So I let my feet guide me towards the river, staring at the rippling current. Numb as I was from the cold, I barely felt the willow tendrils snake around my arms.

The water embraced me. I sunk in to my waist, my chest, my neck. Then there was a blast of fire, and I found myself screaming at whoever had burned me to stop, stop, I hate you because they’d ruined it. I’d been so calm, so warm, and now I was shivering in the water surrounded by ash and the smell of smoke.

Then an arm wrapped around me, and I was dragged back to shore. Coughing up river water on the bank, I realized what had almost happened.

“Left it long enough, didn’t you?” I regretted my harsh words as soon as I saw Nightingale’s face, pale and worried.

“I wasn’t sure I’d be able to finish it.”

I tried for a grin, landing somewhere around a grimace instead. “Well. It’s dead now.” He’d well and truly blown it to bits; all that was left was a charred stump on the riverside. We stood watch until morning, and then Nightingale found a chainsaw and chopped the rest of it to powder. We took what shavings we could gather back to the Folly for Dr. Walid to study, although Nightingale was skeptical of what we could discover. He took one look at the vial and told me the tree was “an evil older than science”, and I’d long since given up trying to convince him of the value of the scientific method.

***

It took longer than I would have liked for the marks on my arms to fade, and longer still to forget my “break-up” with Nightingale. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d drawn from more than pure imagination. He’d sounded familiar with claiming a boyfriend, maybe even wistful. Not that I’d ever bring it up. No—I’d do everything in my power to avoid having that conversation with my boss. That didn’t stop me from thinking about it, the same as the lack of danger didn’t stop me from running my fingers across the circles cut around my arms and shivering.

Dr. Walid sent the lab results a week later—it turned out the tree glowed in the dark. How he could tell given only ashes, I had no clue, but I was willing to take his word for it. He had some convoluted theory involving bioluminescence and fungi symbiosis, but the important part is that other than the glow, the tree looked normal. No brain, no nerve cells, nothing to indicate how or why it killed.

The bottom line was that I'd been attacked by a glow-in-the-dark tree during an investigation in which my boss may have accidentally come out to me as gay. Well. At least I could take solace in the fact that things couldn’t get weirder.

 

 


End file.
